A 1,000-Mile Walk on the Beach: Great Lakes Adventure Trilogy, #1

Introduction

My earliest memory of Lake Michigan is of a six-year-old me running full speed down the mammoth sand dunes at Warren Dunes State Park, on the eastern shores of the great inland body of water. I’d race my siblings up the shifting hill, one step slipping back for every two taken. At the top, we’d turn and look down on the lake.

The Lake.

Blue water, on and on and on. There was no way to see the other side. It stretched left and right and forward till it met the sky. The breeze off the lake blew up the dune, warming and lifting from the hot sand.

Lifting.

There was so much rising air that hang gliders would launch off the top and glide high over the foot of the dune all the way to the water’s edge, banking and stalling and turning. You could fly off that dune if you had the right wing.

We did the next best thing: we ran.

We ran so fast that our legs could not keep up with our bodies; we’d pitch forward, heels-over-head, and end sprawled on the warm slope. Once we caught our breath we’d continue the downhill race.

That exhilaration, that rush – followed by a plunge in the always cool lake – marked me, and I have been constantly drawn back to the shores of Lake Michigan.

When I turned 45, I felt something pull at me, goading me to take on something bigger than myself, to challenge myself in a big way. I considered long hikes on some mountain trail, but every time I contemplated weeks in the woods, I thought, I will miss the lake. Then it occurred to me: why not take on the lake? Why not walk its shoreline day after day until I had walked all of it, captured it in my muscles, recorded it in my body? Begin the adventure in Chicago and walk until the Windy City skyline disappeared behind me, then – months later – see the same skyline appear as I approached it from the opposite direction having fully encircled this Great Lake.

So, it was decided. In the fall of 2008, I told my husband, Jim, Next year, I’m going to walk all the way around Lake Michigan.

He paused for a moment, then asked, Well, shouldn’t we discuss this?

I simply said, No.

It had been decided. It was the adventure that I must have.

I am a wife and the mom of two boys, Ben and Lucas. They were both teenagers when I decided to undertake the Lake Trek. I had worked in medical research when they were little, but was able to stay at home with them when my husband got his first job after residency. I enjoyed the privilege of being there for my boys, to pack their lunches, drive them around, be the mom who volunteered for things at their school. Now Ben had just gone off for his first year of college, and Lucas was driving himself to school. The nest was emptying.

It was time to take on something that would challenge me physically, emotionally, mentally. To take on something that could be completed instead of the household chores that never ended. I didn’t think my husband would understand the need to do this. He’s a steady guy. He has cold cereal every morning, and stirs it the same way. The sound of the spoon scraping the side of the bowl, lifting the cereal, then the bowl turning an exact partial turn on the countertop until it has made a complete revolution greets me every morning as I wait for the coffee to brew.

No, I didn’t want to discuss it to death. He’d want me to justify it, to have it pass his test of being necessary.

I thought about the piles of dishes and laundry, the meals I cooked almost every night, the taxiing of kids that I had done for years. I did not regret doing these things. But years of constantly giving can chip away at who you are, and it seemed like a good time in our family life for me to launch out on my own. I wanted to test and push myself, and to make sure I still knew who I was apart from my identity within my wonderful family. 

The Lake Trek called to me.

That fall, I began jogging several times a week until the snow started falling. Through the winter, I trained at the gym. I built up muscle mass and dropped a few pounds. My stamina increased, and I began to feel stronger in my body.

Through the winter, I studied maps and satellite images of the lakeshore, the beaches, steel mills, oil refineries, major and minor cities, stretches of parks, the wild expanse of the southern edge of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. I decided to map out the coming journey in segments, sections to walk over four seasons.

And I decided to always keep as close to the water as possible.

I would begin and end in Chicago on the tip of Navy Pier, an urban peninsula that reaches over a half mile out on the lake. I would trek around the lake counter-clockwise, the lake always holding my left hand.

This is my journey that became A 1,000-Mile Walk on the Beach.

Walk with me.

Segment 1

March 16–20

Chicago, IL to Union Pier, MI

72 miles in 5 days

Total Trek Mileage: 72 miles

Heading to Chicago

To begin my hike around Lake Michigan, I rode the train into Chicago. Usually, when driving into the city, I pop in a CD of Carl Sandburg’s poem Windy City as I approach the Chicago Skyway. The skyway is an elevated 8-mile section of highway that rises over the Calumet River south of the city. It is from here that I get my first glimpse of the Chicago skyline across the lake.

Sandburg is known for shorter works – the six-lined Fog (about fog and cat feet) comes to mind – but his poem about Chicago is over fifteen minutes long. The recording I have is of Carl Sandburg reading his poem. When he says the name of the windy city, he intones it: Chicaaaooogoooo. He sing-songs the name, pulls it like taffy. The poem chronicles the rise of the city by the lake, the building and breaking down, the people, the neighborhoods, the stockyards and steel. And the jazz.

Chicaaaooogooooo.

A large part of Chicago’s appeal is that it sits on the edge of Lake Michigan. The city has gone to great lengths to preserve its relationship with the lake. The first map of Chicago drawn up in 1836 had Public Ground – A Common to Remain Forever Open, Clear, and Free of any buildings, or Other Obstruction whatever written along the lakefront land. This phrase set forth a precedent to preserve Chicago’s shore.

The architect Daniel Burnham was a strong proponent for Chicago’s lakefront. The year I began my Lake Trek was the 100th anniversary of his Plan of Chicago. This work birthed American urban planning and is a touchstone even today. Burnham designed the city with the lakeshore acting as Chicago’s front yard and open entryway to the lake.

I chose to begin the Lake Trek in Chicago for several reasons. First, it was the perfect marker as the beginning and end of the trek. I would be able to see the skyline for miles as I left the city and as I approached it at the end. Second, I could take the train into the city to begin. Third, I wanted to walk the south side of the lake first.

The southern curve of Lake Michigan is highly industrialized, riddled with immense steel mills, container ports, cement factories, and one of the nation’s largest oil refineries. I wanted to walk this segment first to both get it out of the way and to be able to relate it to the rest of the lake.

When most people think of Lake Michigan, they envision the singing sands, the wide beaches, the clean waters. Robert Macfarlane said in his book The Wild Places that certain landscapes might hold certain thoughts. I wanted to have sand dune and lakeshore thoughts, but in this first part of my trek I’d have to welcome steel mill and railroad thoughts, shipping canal and abandoned building thoughts. I knew I’d have to pass through the hard truth of the southern rim of the lake with its soot and sparks and industrial sounds.

The dirty silver Amtrak train scooted through the industrial corridor into the south side of Chicago. Through the streaked and cloudy window, I saw long trains of mounded coal cars, fenced yards outside of factories filled with long sheets or thick cords of coiled steel, and many, many abandoned buildings. I was familiar with this area in concept, from a distance in a fast-moving car. After walking this segment, I’d have a boots-on-the-ground, soot-in-the-lungs intimacy with it.

But, first, I had to arrive at the beginning: Chicago.

Begin at the beginning

If you’ve ever lived in the Midwest, then you can appreciate that first day when winter releases its icy-clawed grip on the land and people. The sun comes out, it hits 50 degrees, and everyone acts like they’ve had a triple dose of Zoloft.

March 15, the day I arrived in Chicago, was that day.

Winter had been exceptionally cold and snowy, one that had broken long-standing records. But the piles of dirty snow had magically disappeared with the warmth, and the sun, finally, was shining.

Beginning my adventure on the tip of Navy Pier would give me the perfect vantage point to look out on the lake and also back at the city of Chicago. The pier is almost 100 years old. During WWI, it was turned into a training facility for soldiers, and the towers of the Grand Ballroom were used as carrier pigeon stations. Between the wars, the pier reverted to a gathering place and hosted many exhibitions. During WWII, it became a training facility for naval pilots, and, after the war, the pier housed the newly established University of Illinois. Returning GIs nicknamed the school Harvard on the Rocks. The pier has since evolved into the tourist spot it is today. There are restaurants, museums, a Shakespeare Theater, and amusement rides, in addition to the docking places available for boats to take locals and tourists on jaunts out on the lake.

The night before beginning the Lake Trek, a mixture of excitement and anticipation kept me awake. Would I be able to complete these first 70 miles in the five days I’d allowed myself, let alone all 1,000? After just a few hours of sleep, I woke early and hustled the several blocks to Navy Pier. As I walked the length of the deserted pier, the sun lifted itself out of the lake and balanced on its edge. The day was crisp, the wind mild, and the forecast was for it to warm into the 60s.

I was thrilled and, yes, a little – if not scared – then a bit overwhelmed at the scale of what I was about to begin. The lake surrounded me. I could look north up its length and see nothing but smooth water, and east across its width and see its flat expanse. Then, I turned south. The rim of the lake is studded for miles with boxy factories and steel mills with tall chimneys topped with smoky plumes. The breeze was from the south, so the gray and black smoke trailed out over the lake, reaching toward me like dissipating fingers. How, exactly, does one walk through all of that industry? I was about to find out if it was even possible.

After months of training and planning, I was at the beginning. From the end of the pier, I looked back at the city. This is a wonderful thing about Chicago: you can be in a park or on a pier or even the museum campus and look back at the buildings. From some angles you can even catch the city’s reflection on the lake. It is gorgeous. I took in the moment, snapped some photos of me with the city, the pier, the lake in the background, I breathed in the clean lake air, and turned on my GPS unit. Then, I took the very first steps of my 1,000-Mile Walk on the Beach.

From downtown Chicago and south to Hyde Park there are lovely pathways through parks along the lakefront. I’d planned this first day to be only 10 miles. This would be a relatively easy walk that would put me in a good position for the next day.

The first few miles took me from Navy Pier to the Alder Planetarium. This U-shaped hike spanned Grant Park and provided wonderful views of the lake and the city. On a clear day, you can see Chicago from the far-off Michigan side where I would end this segment’s trek – over 70 miles away by land, about half that distance when you look back over the lake. In these early miles, it was comforting to watch the buildings come alive in the morning light.

Rounding the end of the museum campus, I noticed how calm the lake was. A wide, concrete slab that tilts slightly toward the lake rims the planetarium. This walkway seemed to blend with the calm, unmoving water. Since it was still technically winter, I was lucky to get this gentle beginning to my journey.

I made my way around the empty and iced-over marina and skirted Soldier Field and McCormick Place. I curved off the path whenever a patch of beach presented itself. The walking was easy and pleasant. I passed many people using the pathway in the mild weather. Often, I glanced back at the receding skyline.

Hyde Park is home to the University of Chicago. The University has an important connection with the lake in the person of Dr. Henry Cowles who was a Professor of Botany there in the early 1900s. From his many visits to wilderness areas around Chicago, he came to understand that landscapes and habitats change and evolve, a revolutionary thought at the time. A large swath of his old stomping grounds is now protected as the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore. That park, lying still a good number of miles ahead of me, encompasses some of the most biodiverse and unique habitats on the planet.

After dinner, I went to a small grocery store and chose some fruit. Then I saw a small container of olives and feta cheese in olive oil. Thinking I’d go for haute cuisine Lake Trek snacks, I grabbed it along with some crackers. My staple snack of almond M&Ms – while delightful – could use some classing up. I settled into my room and organized my backpack while watching the news.

The lead story that night was yet another fatal shooting of a high school student on Chicago’s South Side, the 28th student to be murdered in Chicago that school year. The report told how the young man had died shielding two younger kids in the back seat of a mini van.

I knew that the South Side was rough. I had lived in Detroit in the past, though, so I was familiar with rough neighborhoods. Part of taking the measure of Lake Michigan would be a commitment to experiencing the entire shoreline, not just the sandy beaches we are all drawn to.

The next morning, I began walking in time to see the sun rising behind the Museum of Science and Industry at the north end of Jackson Park. This park was the location of the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893. Daniel Burnham designed most of the buildings for the event and the Museum of Science and Industry is a permanent version of one of his buildings. Frederick Law Olmstead designed the park. He’s the same landscape designer who created Manhattan’s Central Park, Brooklyn’s Prospect Park, and the grounds around the U.S. Capitol Building, among many other prominent projects.

I wandered over several small bridges and greeted a gentleman casting the first fishing line of the day into the still waters there. Then I came upon a formal Japanese garden. An arched wooden bridge lifted me over a stream. I walked through stones arranged to catch the morning light. I had just started the day and was eager to put some miles behind me, but it was so tranquil that I sat and spent a few slow, beautiful minutes watching the sun lift itself fully from the lake.

A great place to dump a body

Jackson Park transitioned into the large expanse of land around the South Shore Country Club and, after several blocks of neighborhoods, into Rainbow Park. This park butts up against the former site of U.S. Steel’s South Works mill. This is where the steel was forged to build the John Hancock Center and Sears Tower. The mill operated for over 100 years, closing for good in the 1990s. At its height, 20,000 people worked there. Iron and water go together because Lake Michigan provides a way for vast quantities of iron ore and limestone to be shipped to the mill.

Now, every trace of the South Works mill has been scoured from the land. All that remains are hundreds of acres of feral, trash-strewn scrub-land. While there are optimistic plans to develop the site with housing and retail, parks and a marina, it stands as a post-industrial, polluted scar on the lakeshore.

The night before, I had set out some rules to keep myself safe for the rest of this segment:

1.  Don’t walk through areas that look like a good place to dump a body.

2.  Don’t take photos where people might get angry about someone taking photos.

3.  Don’t take photos near any place that looks like a meth house.

4.  Start early in the morning, and end well before dusk.

I walk on the fractured sidewalk near the fence, trying to pick my way through all the trash and broken glass. There isn’t a single footstep where I don’t crunch glass shards beneath my boots. The fence is so close that I can reach out my left hand and touch it. A tall berm of dirt on the other side of the fence prevents me from seeing the steel mill site. Between the dirt and the fence are piles of trash: smashed bottles and dirty diapers, fast-food wrappers and plastic bags darting in the breeze. I want to get a good photo of the site, but it is not the kind of neighborhood where one climbs barbed wire-topped fences.

Across the narrow street a row of beaten, small houses squat close together. A large man stands on his slanting front porch watching me pass. He clenches and unclenches his massive hands as he tracks me with his eyes; is he angry at something? A street-sweeper machine races up the road. Who knew they could move so fast? It doesn’t clean the street, it just races through the torn-up neighborhood. On the next block is an enormous church with a spire reaching for the clouds, a monument to the wealth and community that once was here. The area around the fenced church is broken and mostly abandoned.

I walk quickly and catch up to two elementary school-aged brothers with backpacks. As I pass them, they look up at me like I’m an apparition.

I smile and say, Good Morning!

They look at me, then at each other, then back again. The smaller one asks his brother, What did she say?

I keep smiling and say, Hello! but they seem befuddled by what this is all about. I keep walking, and they fall far behind.

Tiny, tired houses now crowd the sidewalk; their porches almost touch it. Every so often, a house is missing on the street, the place where it stood now a gouged-out hole where useless things are tossed. Often, the houses on either side are scorched and blackened; sometimes siding is warped from the heat of the fire that consumed the house now absent. There are many sites that look like a good place to dump a body or like a meth house.

Or, seriously, both.

In Detroit, I lived near Mexican Village, a neighborhood that had a bakery that made wonderful pastries. As I walk south on Commercial Avenue past all the gated stores and restaurants, I smell something that takes me back to that Detroit neighborhood. Across the street, I see a Mexican bakery called Marzeya.

When I enter the place, I gasp. The perimeter of the space is lined with cases filled with tray after tray of elaborate pastries. I wander from one to the next, studying the